


constellations

by purearcticfire



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8448148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purearcticfire/pseuds/purearcticfire
Summary: Theo can't sleep, so she watches the stars in her bed.





	

Theo’s not an artist, not like Philip is, with words flowing through his veins rather than blood, writing poetry like he was claiming his birthright. She’s not an artist like Angie, either, playing the piano like it’s as easy as breathing, a conduit for her soul, an extension of her body. She confided this to her mother once; her mother just said she hadn’t found the way to express herself yet. Sometimes Theo blames her father for that, living under the doctrine of ‘talk less, smile more’ and ‘keep everything close to your chest’. Other days she convinces herself ballet is her art form. But even her ballet doesn’t come close to what her friends have, that all-encompassing passion that you know you’re born for.

Theo’s not an artist, but she can recognize art when she sees it—and looking down at Philip, at the moonlight painting a square of white light over his bare back as he sleeps, this is more art than anything created by Michelangelo or Monet or Da Vinci.

Art is his curls fanned out on the pillow, a messy halo around his head, stray ringlets tickling his nose and tangling with his eyelashes. Art is his long limbs splayed out like a spider monkey on the bed, the hand closest flattened on the mattress, fingers still reaching for her even in sleep. Art is the ink smudged on the side of his hand and stained almost permanently on his fingers. Art is the faint smile curving his mouth, the bow of his lips. Art is his feet poking out from the sheets, hanging off the bed, twitching every now and then as he dreams, one sock on, one sock off. Art is the sheets tangled around his legs, the comforter rucked down to his hips. Art is knowing if she dragged the covers down further she’d see the swell of his ass and the two-inch white scar on his right butt cheek, courtesy of a splinter from that shed they destroyed when they were kids. Art is the broad planes of his back, the dip of his spine, the ridges of his vertebrae. Art is the way his freckles cover his entire body, not just a bridge of them across his nose or sprayed over his shoulders, but like the stars in the night sky, thousands of pricks of light, pinpoints in a dark canvas. Art is reaching out and tracing mindless patterns and playing connect-the-dots, the way she feels like dipping her fingers in a bucket of paint and then drawing lines across his skin. Art is the urge to paint him, not a likeness of him on an eighteen by twenty-four canvas—she knows, intrinsically, that no one would ever be able to capture Philip right—no, to take a brush and outline his edges, color him in rainbow, bristles scraping, decide to forgo any instruments and instead press her blue and green handprints all over him. Art is the stories he tells without meaning to, art is the stories he knows and stories he doesn’t, all mapped out on his skin. Art is the way she can find constellations in him much easier than in that black expanse up there. Art is Orion’s Belt on his shoulder blade and Cassiopeia’s throne on his hip, Sagittarius’s bow drawn back, aiming for his neck. Perseus triumphant, Medusa’s head held aloft, on his calf. Draco belching flames, perched on his rib cage; Pisces swimming down his arm; Leo roaring on his stomach; Ursa Major dotted over his pectorals. Art is Philip Hamilton being her sun, moon, and stars.

Theo’s not an artist, but she can spend her days picking out every way in which Philip is a work of art.


End file.
